Seasons
by daysandweeks
Summary: Four seasons of reflecting and imagining and falling in love between Ron and Hermione. Takes place from the winter of sixth year to the fall of the next year. Written preDH
1. Winter

He's never reminded me of winter, but maybe that's just because I don't like winter much.

I always fight with him in winter, about one thing or another, but aside from that, I do not associate him with the season. Winter is cold and reserved and quiet and doesn't want to fall in love. He is loud and talkative and warm and too embarrassed to admit when he does want to fall in love.

I am awake, sitting in front of the fire on this January night, reading, presumably, although I'm really counting the minutes that have passed. It's much past midnight, and he still has not returned with that beast Lavender. If anything, she reminds me of winter—cold and jealous and cunning, although maybe it's _me_ that is jealous of _her_.

Suddenly the door swings open, and in they come, attached at the face, all giggles and saliva and sweat and all those nice but unpleasant things that come with kissing, and whatever else they've just done.

Lavender is the first to notice me, and she breaks off from him, giggling. She excuses herself, briefly kisses him one last time, and exits to her dormitory.

The temperature in the room seems to drop fifty degrees as we meet eyes. He is red, perhaps from all the kissing, or perhaps from anger or embarrassment at walking in on me like that. He awkwardly waves and heads to his dormitory, but not before I can spare him a few words. They seem spiteful and petty and obvious, but in reality, they translate to so much more. They translate to why and how and when and more whys.

But all he hears is, "Your hair is a messy."


	2. Spring

She's never reminded me of spring, but maybe that's just because I've never been a fan of spring.

Lavender reminded me of spring in the good sense. She was always happy, and spring would be happy if it had emotions, I think. And her hair was blonde and her eyes were blue, and if spring were to be a person, it would have blonde hair and blue eyes, I'm pretty sure.

But this young woman is not like spring. We are in the library, and she is flipping through a book, researching something or other. Lavender never did research, unless it was last-minute, and the research was always poorly done. This girl looks up at me, and the deep brownness of her eyes makes me blush, because I feel like I'm being turned upside down, the way my stomach is fluttering. It's not very much like me.

I am doodling on the parchment that is supposed to be my Potions essay. I remain focused on her, continuing to stare when she looks away from me. Suddenly, I feel my quill snap, since I've been applying too much pressure on it. I am about to curse when she pulls out another quill and hands it to me.

"I love you." This has been slipping out of me a lot lately, and I realize what I've just said, although whenever I say it, it is in a form of thanks. My stomach is fluttering again as she replies, but what has she just said? I surely won't remember tomorrow, I'm only focused on her lips, and the way that they're moving, and I'm thinking…

Maybe I really mean what I say.


	3. Summer

He reminds me of summer, in a lot of ways. But maybe it's just because I love summer.

There are problems with summer, of course…problems like lack of school, lack of studying, and lack of learning new things. In summer, no one hands you an assignment and tells you when it has to be done and how long it as to be. You have to do the figuring out on your own. He is like this, I think, as we sit in his backyard this summer night, awkwardly holding hands, and I doubt that the moment could be sweeter. Because, in a sense, he is summer, radiant and spontaneous and moody and wonderful.

He speaks to me now as summer does—without words at all. I can feel his hand twitching nervously and his legs moving, restless, as we lay on the grass, looking up at the starry sky. There have been times when he tells me that he wants to relax one day, when this war that hasn't even started, that starts tomorrow, if we must give it a date, is over. He wants a house of his own and a family too, although he doesn't say that much. "Just something simple," he tells me on these occasions, as he smiles.

And when we depart the next morning, no longer holding hands, but following Harry loyally, I think once more that he is like summer, and not because of this mischievous glint in his eye or his lopsided grin, despite the fact that he is just as scared as me and presumably Harry.

No, he isn't like summer because of any of this. He is like summer because I love him.


	4. Autumn

She reminds me of autumn, in a lot of ways. But maybe it's just because I like autumn.

You see, her hair is brown, and autumn is brown, as well as swirls of other colors-red and gold, like the colors of her scarf. And she is standing there on this cool November day, scarf wrapped tight around her neck and chin, brown eyes blinking, and bushy brown hair blowing into her face due to the wind.

We are both cold as we stand outside of the cave. Her hand has found mine, and I can see in her eyes that she is scared, but not only does fear sparkle delicately in those chestnut-brown pools, but hope.

Harry is somewhere in the cave, and he knows that he will find the locket, and he says that this time he'll drink any stupid potion if he has to in order to get to the Horcrux. No one else he loves is dying this time. No one.

But all she does is smile, and take my hand. Because this time it will end differently. We have made a promise, now that everything is situated as far as feelings go, and she is making me keep myself alive everyday, for her _and_ for me.

She tells me she wants to travel one day, on cold nights, when she's coughing and I'm trying to start a small fire. "Esperanza," she whispers. She doesn't tell me what language it is, although I believe it's Spanish, or perhaps Italian. I've never heard Fleur say it, so it can't be French.

But I know what it means, even when she forgets to tell me.

It means hope.

**FIN**


End file.
